Shadowing a Ghost
by absentees
Summary: I had to obey three simple rules. One: whatever happens, make sure you don't end up dead. Two: only alter history when you have to. Three: find a way back home before time runs out. They didn't tell me what the consequences would be if I screwed up. And knowing me, I already royally did.
1. Prologue

**PROLOGUE: A BUTTERFLY EFFECT**

MANHATTAN, NEW YORK, 2012

_Pitter-patter._

"Do you know why it is that you are here, young man?" A short pause followed, and I know that meant he was looking for my name, located somewhere on that clipboard of his written in an — most likely — unreadable handwriting. A frown was etched onto his face as he did so, his posture as stiff as a board. He probably must have been too proud to not ask me for my name a third time.

While the old man was busy flipping through the many sheets of paper he was forced to bring along, his only pair of glasses were hanging dangerously loose on the bridge of his nose. To waste some time, I started with looking around, taking in the conference room. Its walls were pristine white, somewhat boring. The only type of decoration in the large space was a plant standing in the left corner. For a million dollar company they sure had cut back on the minimalistic interior of the building.

I know Byzantium wasn't built to entertain in the slightest, no. The many floors that made up this company were designed to do one thing only: intimidate its visitors. Now having seen it with my own eyes, I had to agree. The internet was right about this joint; the images generated by search engines hadn't lived up to the full blown potential of the building.

_Pitter-patter._

The rain still hadn't stopped.

A gentle clicking of the old man's tongue made my head turn to look back at him, my gaze now removed from the soggy windows and the depressing weather. With appreciation in his green eyes he took in the papers scattered before him on the glass table. I just managed to see my résumé lying on top.

"So, Mr. Baines," he calmly continued, audibly clearing his throat, "to come back to my earlier posed question, do you know why you are really here?" A smile graced his tired face, but it didn't quite reach his eyes.

I chose my words carefully, knowing that one slip up was enough to get my ass kicked out of the program. Offering him a small smile I stated, "Well, sir, I was interested in the special program you offered to newer interns. The job details required students who have the acquired grades, and at the same time are willing to sacrifice free time for science." I absentmindedly ran a hand through my dark hair. "That's why I am here, Mr. Carter. To not disappoint."

The head researcher took a pen out of his briefcase, only starting with making notes after I had quit talking. The scratching sound of the writing tool hitting the paper reached my ears.

"I see," he continued, pushing back the rim of his glasses with his index finger. "And that does not take away the fact this program in particular offers extra credit, even going so far as to include a decent paycheck for a young man like yourself? Would you care to elaborate on that?"

My lips curled into a forced smile, knowing fully well he had me cornered there. "Sir, with all due respect, I am a student. The money doesn't exactly grow on my back. As for the extra credit, I figured the experience this program offers would be of much more use to me than the extra credit I can get. I do have to admit that it comes in handy."

"Interesting answer," Mr. Carter stated, dropping the pen unceremoniously on the table. "How could that bold statement possibly go unnoticed, eh? Well, Daniel, it looks like we've come to an agreement. It already was established with your previous meeting, and I assume without your knowledge."

That was when he slid two separate piles of paper over the table into my direction, his mouth curved in a thin and subtle line as he noticed my raised eyebrows. He leaned back in the chair, crossing his arms before he continued his talking.

"I've been informed that this is your second meeting here at Byzantium Incorporated. Am I correct, Daniel?"

A shiver ran down my spine as he used my first name, and it would be an understatement if I said that it bothered me. Looking over the contract intently, scanning the many clauses, I managed to nod my head twice in confirmation.

"Yes, that's right, sir," I answered, not bothering to look up from the papers just to meet his eyes. "The last time I was here was… exactly a week ago. Seems like you guys just love to be punctual."

I didn't know why I had said that, especially since I wasn't the best person to keep my wits hidden for people like him. And at the same time, it wasn't particularly meant to be a joke, either. So, I was glad that this didn't make him smile in the slightest, seeing as that sentence had been overrun with blunt sarcasm.

I also didn't know why I hadn't told him about another visit in particular, about a year ago. But that didn't matter. He didn't need to know about the dreams and nightmares I had as a kid — the sort that kept on coming back and left me bathing in cold sweat each night.

But the real issue at hand? I didn't like the guy. He seemed to scrutinize my every move, as if he was waiting for a mistake to be made on my part. It would be very poetic if I said that he had the gaze of a hawk, but I couldn't help but think that was true with each minute. To top it off, I was convinced that he didn't want me here. While pondering over this and simultaneously trying to flip the many pages of the contract, I didn't even notice his sudden presence beside the place I was seated. It didn't change until he tapped my shoulder, making an attempt at catching my attention.

Luckily enough for the old man, it worked.

"Daniel?" Mr. Carter drawled out in that annoying voice of his, seemingly adamant on getting a response out of me. "I asked you a question."

"And what was that, sir?" I retorted, my eyebrows in a light frown as I turned to look at him. "Mr. Carter, that contract of yours isn't something I can read in less than 10 minutes." I swallowed hard, fearing I had been a bit too blunt, a mumbled apology having followed quickly.

He let out a chuckle, patting my back firmly before returning to his seat at the far end of the table. He cast another glance at the papers lying on table before resuming the conversation.

"Never mind that, kid. I'm simply not used to people using that sort of tone in my presence," he explained, keeping my gaze level with his. The man then leaned forward into his seat, the tone of his voice dropping a tad. "You seem to be unafraid of the consequences. I admire that. It certainly is a trait you should keep, Daniel. You're not just an intern. And you aren't here for only the science."

Somehow, Carter's words did not sound that promising anymore to my ears. That earlier glint in his green eyes had disappeared, an unreadable expression now masking his aged face.

"This conversation can go two ways, Mr. Baines."

My mouth curled into an empty smile. "Back to the formalities, huh?" I remarked, but he didn't seem too happy with my interruption.

"Let me repeat my words to you, Mr. Baines," he resumed while clasping his hands behind his back, leaving his seat unoccupied just to walk around the room at a tedious rate. "The conversation we are having right at this moment can have two endings. Let's look at it from a different perspective, shall we?"

From that moment on, I knew I shouldn't mess with him. I could only scowl at him from the place where I was sitting. One glance directed at the corner of the conference room told me we weren't with just the two of us. The guard must have taken his place there sometime during whatever this… fucked up meeting was.

_Right_— as if I could take punches from a guy who looked as if he took steroids. Maybe I should have hit the gym more often in the past.

The old man's sudden question caught me off guard, a confused expression appearing onto my face as I discarded any previous thoughts of going to the gym. Screw that.

"If you were presented with the opportunity to relive history, Mr. Baines, would you?" he quietly posed.

I chose to gape at him with my mouth wide open, probably looking like a complete idiot. But I couldn't care less for that, the current issue being of much more importance as I recalled all I knew about it. For starters, time traveling was impossible. It was supposed to be impossible, a thing used for entertainment in movies. How many articles had I not read about that stuff before? However, it was that simple sentence which made the gears in my brain run in overtime. The look on Carter's face I saw was blank, but my gut instinct told me he was dead serious about it all. Very serious.

A short pause followed on my side. I blinked a couple of times for good measure. "…You're kidding me, right?"

"And we have a sceptic in our midst. Ironic," I heard him mutter to, probably, himself. He simply continued with shaking his head. "I am afraid not, young man. What I just told you isn't a lie. If it wasn't possible, I would never have chosen to become a scientist in the first place. But you did not answer my question. Would you be willing to, Mr. Baines? Would you want to defy all you ever thought to be true, altering decisions made in the past? Imagine what kind of positive things you could do for mankind, for certain individuals."

"Maybe," I started, hesitating a bit. "I… I don't know."

"Here I thought you would not disappoint me." Carter shook his head. "You could be a god."

Then I realized it. They hadn't told me what the exact specifics were of the intern program. The other time I had been here for business purposes, it had simply consisted out of a conversation in which I had to show my qualities, and sway the company to hire me. A few days later they had called me to come back for another appointment. I never got the exact details. So, it wasn't until now that I knew I was signing up to be an experimental lab rabbit, just for their sake.

I knew I couldn't trust him.

"Do you now know why you are here, Mr. Baines?"

"Yeah, I think I do." _Time to go._

I swiftly stood up from my chair, the movement apparently being hard enough to see the piece of furniture falling to the floor with a loud thud. I planned on hightailing it out of this building, making my way towards the elevators so I could leave. Sticking around wasn't an option. And it wouldn't have been an issue if that bulky guy hadn't blocked my only exit at the last moment.

I turned around to face the scientist, the adrenaline still rushing through my body. The need to wipe that grin off Carter's face was terrible, despite the mere attempt at it alone being pretty useless because of his private bodyguard. I could only spice up my vocabulary, scowling at the old man while I thought of a way to taunt him.

"You're insane," I bit back.

"Ah, aren't all scientists supposed to be insane? How else do we reach our goals in this world, our ideals?"

I then noticed the sound of heavy footsteps from the side coming towards me, but Carter's held up hand made his bodyguard still his movement. _For now_, I figured, daring to take a peek at the guy from the corner of my eyes before looking back at Carter.

"What the hell is it you want from me?" I couldn't help but sneer at him, following his movement.

Carter turned his back on me to look out the window, the rain still drizzling rather miserably. A mere snap of his fingers ensured that his bodyguard had a vice and painful grip around my right arm.

"You'll find out soon enough, _boy_."

That was all I heard before getting knocked out.

* * *

**A/N:** Hey y'all! So, this is my take on the 'time travel' aspect and whatnot. This is the introduction of the story; the fun should really begin in the following chapters. Please keep in mind that I'm writing this as I go, so updates will be most likely be sporadic. I also appreciate any kind of constructive criticism, or questions you might have.

Last but not least, I want to make clear that this story is based on the portrayals in the miniseries, not the real men themselves. Furthermore, I am only using the book as a reference to keep this story as historically accurate as possible.

Now, the disclaimer, which applies to the story as a whole:

_Anything related to the HBO miniseries and the book written by Stephen E. Ambrose is not owned by me. The original characters and any plotline you might not recognize are my creation._


	2. Jonathan Anthony Collins

**CHAPTER I: JONATHAN ANTHONY COLLINS**

The thin needle piercing my skin hurt, a soft groan escaping my mouth as a result. But instead of looking at the object in question, my eyes were drawn to the small pair of hands around my upper arm. The young woman's hold on it was surprisingly gentle; you could even say careful. It was a vast contradiction compared to the guard's vice grip I had the privilege of getting acquainted with hours before. Hell, it even could have been days ago, although I knew that was too big of a wager to make.

_What an ass,_ I reminded myself, wincing involuntarily as her fingers accidently put pressure on the bruise the guy in question had left behind.

"I'm sorry," she muttered to me as an apology, all the while fastening the strap of the damn needle thing with gingerly hands.

"For what?"

She merely fell silent, seemingly contemplating over her answer. "This… Everything."

Furrowing my brows, I replied with an uncharacteristic snort. "Right," I continued, staring her down. "That's easy for you to say."

Any kind of idea popping up in my head to start some small talk died after that comment, silence once again being the ultimate winner. Not that I was interested in talking with her so badly — company was a sight for sore eyes, especially when being locked away in a room hidden in a building, in the middle of somewhere. But I simply didn't bother to envy her position; she was lucky enough to not end up like me.

A lab rabbit.

As if suddenly burned, she removed her hand from my arm, lips pursed as her gaze settled on someone behind me. Standing up from her place next to where I was sitting, a single glance sent towards me as another apology, she silently exited the room.

I didn't need to turn around to find out who the person was who had just decided to enter the room in a quiet manner.

"Missed me, Carter?" I piped up, albeit my words weren't meant to humor him in the slightest.

He didn't offer me an answer. Instead, I heard him shuffle with his feet, calmly moving to take a seat across from me. Carter had his green eyes trained on me, looking at me as if I were just a prey to him. And technically speaking, he was right about that.

Carter began to talk, "I am fairly certain you were acquainted well with your grandfather, the one named Jonathan?"

I raised an eyebrow at him, expecting everything but this question. For starters, he had stepped out of bed with his wrong leg, seeing as this wasn't even close to the right assumption. Because of this, I kept wondering certain things. Carter seemed to know every little bit of info on me, even when they looked to be less than irrelevant at certain times.

I wondered how long I had been under their supervision, and why. Even more fucked up was the fact that I hadn't noticed their prying into my life. The idea alone that they had watched me and my family made my blood boil. The realization that I couldn't do anything against that was even worse.

_Two can play this game, old man._

"I'm pretty sure you've done your homework," I simply stated, a biting undertone to my words. "But to answer your question, no. I didn't know him, never even got to see him in person. I only know what my gran told me about him when he was still alive. So," I paused, pointing at the needle in my arm with my free hand. "Cut to the chase, will you?"

Carter nodded, seemingly content with my answer as a ghost of a smile lingered on his wrinkled face. "I did not necessarily mean it in _that_ way, Mr. Baines. Even though you might not have met him in flesh, just his grave, you have more in common with him than you are willing to think."

Confusing thoughts clouded my mind, enough to even deliver me a headache. His cryptic words left me agitated.

"Sorry to disappoint, Carter. But just what the hell are you getting at?"

"It's your DNA that speaks volumes, Mr. Baines. That is how simple it is," Carter continued. "As such, what we will do now— what _you_ will do is, in fact, very easy to understand. You will be induced into a coma while we will monitor your progress in the past. If all goes well and this program has been a success, you'll be free to return to your everyday life. History is a matter of simply waiting it out."

Listening to this long-winded explanation of his didn't help much in getting rid of the questions in my head. I just continued watching in Carter's way with a look that could kill. But even then the questions kept swimming in my head, such as what my grandfather had to do with Carter's gimmicks. But I couldn't think coherently anymore. Whatever the damn creep had done to me, it began to tire me out. Carter's obvious glance at his own watch told me he had been killing time, playing physiological mind games to mess with me.

_Dammit. Should have seen that one coming with the needle in my arm._

"You— you drugged me," I muttered, fumbling with and stumbling over my own words as the drug started to kick in. "…Now what, old man?"

Carter once again smiled, flashing his white teeth before saying, "Think of the question I asked you yesterday, Mr. Baines. That should give you an idea of what to expect when you are in that deep slumber. Either way, I do not expect for the transition to be… that much of a challenge. You most certainly will have to stick to the given boundaries. But then again, history is history for a certain reason. All you can and will do is perfecting it."

Standing up from his seat, Carter moved towards the exit. Immediately pausing at the door he turned around to look at me.

"Before I forget — you're not Daniel Alexander Baines back there. So, try not to get killed. Here you're already a dead man walking if you do."

I could only see a vague shade leaving the room before giving in to my subconscious.

* * *

"_Daniel, do you hear me?"_

_[…]_

"_Trust me... You're going to be fine."_

_[…]_

"_Carter doesn't know it, but… I've left clues for you."_

_[…]_

"_Just trust me. You will recognize them when you see them."_

* * *

CAMP TOCCOA, GEORGIA, 1942

_Tick tock._

_Tick tock._

The sound of the clock ticking away leisurely got annoying with the second. My head was pounding like mad, and I know I had been bathing in my own sweat, noticing how clammy my skin felt to the touch. I wanted to know whatever caused this place to be such an oven; the temperature was running high, the heat uncomfortable. But for some reason my own body wouldn't even let me open my eyes. Everything was just strange, unfamiliar, foreign. I couldn't place the smells, or the sounds. Heck, I couldn't even recall that what my hands were currently grasping.

To put it bluntly?

I felt like shit.

A soft groan escaped my parted mouth, and I covered my face with my hands, seeing nothing but darkness. So far, I seemed to be all alone. No sign of company or whatsoever.

I didn't know if I should take that as a good thing or a bad thing.

Eyes finally open, I decided to stay put exactly where I currently was, lying lazily on my back as I blankly stared at the wooden ceiling. I had no clue as to where I could be, where I might have ended up. Of course—I had my fair share of guesses.

But further thinking had to wait.

I turned my head towards the barrack's door being opened, blinking a couple of times as I still felt drowsy. Heavy boots carried themselves to my bunk, and I came face to face with an expression of worry. Yet, that wasn't what struck me the most as odd. My gut instincts told me I _knew_ this guy. And my memory, how terribly vague, reminded me that I had seen him before. He just didn't fit the bill for any names that I had in mind, with his mop of dark hair and average height for a guy.

Just what the hell did Carter get me into?

"Holy shit, Jay."

I was too stunned to say anything back, instead choosing to sit up on the bed to meet his eyes. Absentmindedly I ran a hand through my hair.

"…Jay," I softly muttered, repeating this familiar sounding name, "Who's Jay?"

"Didn't know you went down that… hard," the guy continued, brows furrowed as he assessed me. "You're kinda looking pale, buddy."

_Jay_. That was when realization struck me: my name wasn't Jay. It was my grandfather's. Had I possibly switched bodies? Was that even a real thing? But how could I possibly say stuff about that to a guy who claimed to know me—I mean my grandfather? Yeah, that plan would totally work out just fine. I would be dead meat in a mere minute and shit would hit the fan. Besides, it didn't help that I couldn't think of the guy's name, at all.

I needed confirmation, making sure that I hadn't lost my mind just yet if I indeed was where I was. So, I decided to play along with the scientist's game, relying on my memory alone. Thus I silently cursed Carter, wherever he may have been at that moment. I didn't know why exactly, but I was willing to bet that he hadn't been born yet.

I blinked my eyes a couple of times. "Wait_—_what? What happened?"

_Hold up… did my voice just sound lower?_

The guy's face retained that frown for seconds until it broke out into a smile. However, the confusion showing on my face was completely genuine, and not fake. It took him a while to realize that, and his curled lips slowly but surely faltered and turned into a deadpanned expression.

He heaved a sigh, "You're not shitting me, huh?"

My attention span now fully directed at my grandpa's friend, I carefully shook my head in denial. The throbbing pain at the back of my head was still present as I replied with a slightly hoarse voice, "No. Not a joke."

I don't know how I managed to do it, but at the last moment his name came to my mind. Out of nowhere his name seemed so obvious now.

"Skinny, just cut the crap and tell me what happened."

_Bingo. Saved by the bell._

"…Right," Wayne Sisk started, rubbing the back of his neck. "Well, it's nice to see you didn't forget my name. Come on, get ready; breakfast's still waiting. Then we'll go visit Doc, check that head of yours before Sobel's at it again." The smile had returned again, although it was just a smaller one as he led me out of the barrack into the hot and humid weather.

The sun luckily wasn't glaring down as we left the barracks, clouds blanketing the sky. However, a moan managed to escape my lips just at seeing the sheer amount of light outdoors. Instinctively I held my right hand above my eyes at an attempt to block out the light, still trying to keep up with Skinny. The warmth combined with my sluggish movement didn't do me much good either, and I noticed Skinny's watchful gaze from time to time. Growing up in California, the warmth had never been that annoying. I wondered if this was just a result from hopping 70 years back into the past.

Maybe. Most likely, however, it wasn't.

"Hey, fellas, look who came back from the dead!" Skinny announced with that infamous smile of his as we finally made it to the mess hall, the fellow firmly slapping a hand on my shoulder. He had a decent crowd at his disposal, with most of the available seats in the hall already occupied by hungry and eating G.I.'s. Random cheers reached my ears; some who were present even bothered with clapping.

I grimaced at Skinny's comment, my mouth curling into an awkward smile. If only the guy knew how ironic his words were.

"Jay, Skinny—over here!"

From the corner of my eyes I could see a different young man with brown hair waving us over, a cigarette casually dangling from his lips. I scanned the faces who were sitting with him at the table. Once again, that odd feeling of familiarity swept over me as I followed Skinny to the table. I had never met the men before, had never seen their faces anywhere, couldn't simply recall them. Whereas with Skinny — the guy with the infectious smile — it took minutes to find out his name, this time was different. For some weird reason I immediately could tell who the others were, where they came from.

I could only reason with myself that it was too early for this sci-fi stuff.

"Didn't know you could be such a lightweight, Sleeping Beauty," the same fellow with the cigarette in his mouth said, a very amused expression on his face. "I'm not sure if you noticed, but me and Perco had to haul your ass back to base when you managed to trip over your own feet. I also believe you were drooling along the way. Ain't that right, Frank?"

I snorted at his words, but not before gladly emptying the whole glass of water Skinny had placed before my nose in one go, along with a tray of… something that was once supposed to look like food. Now experimentally picking my fork through the grub, I made to answer, hearing some of the guys snicker. Thank you for being a smartass, George Luz.

"Luz, gimme a break, all right," I replied, pushing back the tray and deciding I wasn't hungry anymore.

It was only day one in good ole 1942, and already I was feeling damn peachy. Still, there were a few things nagging at the back of my mind.

First off, I somehow had landed in the body of 20-year-old Jonathan Anthony Collins, and play pretend was now the key to getting out of here. Even though I hadn't seen the physical evidence clearly in a mirror just yet, I knew it was obvious when the men addressed me with his nickname: Jay. So, this is why Carter had begun talking about Grandpa. Either way, I was stuck in his body, forced to relive what he went through. I just didn't get how… _real_ this all was.

Secondly, I had to rely on what stories Gran had told me, and the flimsy high school history classes. If it was enough to keep me alive, it would have to make do. Not like I had a different choice.

And thirdly, I was convinced that I was already going out of my mind. Keeping my appearance up was going to be hard, but hey— it isn't every day that you get thrown back into the past, right? I still didn't know why I recognized those guys, and I also didn't know yet how I managed to come up with their names.

I needed answers.

A soft-spoken voice woke me up from my thoughts.

"You okay, Jay?"

I quickly averted my gaze from the table that only now I realized I had been staring at, and I turned my neck to where the voice had come from. Across from me sat yet another guy with a mop of brown hair, neatly parted this time. His face familiar, he looked at me with the same gaze Skinny had given me earlier. But it wasn't just him watching me; I could feel the burning stares of the others as I prepared to come up with a perfectly fabricated answer.

_Yeah,_ I thought, _I'm perfectly fine, Shifty! I'm not in my own body and life has screwed me over. But, other than that, I'm good!_

Except, of course, I never said those words. Especially not to a guy such as Powers.

"I'm okay, Shift," I lied, ignoring the throbbing pain of my head. "Just feeling tired, that's all."

Another guy piped up this time, shaking his head in disapproval. "You don't sound all right for someone who managed to survive a tumble down Currahee," Floyd Talbert pointed out with yet another frown on his face.

So, apparently I hadn't been drunk but fell down a thing called Currahee, instead.

"George, you fuck," I muttered just loud enough for the guy in question to hear as a grin crept up on his face. But the amusement of his earlier joke instantly disappeared as the meaning of my words registered in his brain. I now knew I should have shut my mouth.

A deep frown marred his face and he put out his cigarette. "Wait a minute—you're telling me you can't remember what happened yesterday?"

I shook my head, once again attracting the attention of the other men sitting at the table. "That's not how I would say it, but—"

"Literally not a single thing?" George interrupted, the tone of his voice taking on a dangerous edge.

I sighed, "Nothing. Why?"

George only replied back with a curse word and an exasperated groan. This seemed to cause a domino effect around the table, various murmurs of disbelief laced with worry reaching my ears. I did nothing more than covering my face with my hands, wishing to shut out the unwanted attention and harsh whispers.

"Okay." Floyd picked up where he had left off, his mouth a thin stripe. "You know we run this mountain called Currahee, right?"

I nodded as a reply, finally remembering what Gran had once told about it.

"Well, you happened to trip over your feet while descending, hitting your head. And Sobel, our company's CO, was having none of it. He pretty much wanted you to run the whole thing again on your own, even though you were looking like hell." Floyd shrugged before continuing. "Then Winters ended up intervening, ordering Frank and George to bring you back to barracks. Glad he's a platoon leader."

A hum of agreement followed Floyd's statement.

Skinny was then the first to take action, patting my back as he stood up from the table. "Come on, bud," he started. "Doc's probably still waiting."

* * *

**A/N:** Finally, the first chapter!

Many thanks to _BobtheFrog_ and _cchickki_ for leaving a review so far; I'm glad you guys liked it. :)

The next update should be soon, I hope. I'm currently tackling college, so that's going to cut into my writing time, sadly. So, like I said, updates may be a bit sporadic. Anyways, until next time, and please feel free to review.


	3. Pass Revoked

**CHAPTER II: PASS REVOKED**

"Memory loss, huh?"

It wasn't a question. Instead, it was a statement made by the medic-in-training in his trademark Southern drawl. Calm and decisive, almost. I had to follow his finger with my eyes as he moved it from side to side, his own gaze fixed on mine. Skinny silently stood off to the side, patiently waiting, staring at the blank wall ahead of him while I was in the midst of being treated.

An hour had already passed since I landed in 1940-and-something. I was still in that same dazed and confused state, the throbbing pain of my head slightly gone.

"—Hey, hey," I gritted out through my teeth, the medic's hand brushing against a sore spot at the back of my neck. "Goddamn—that hurt."

A chuckle. "It looks painful, too."

"Shut up, Sisk."

Never mind. It _still_ hurt.

We were currently at the base hospital, mainly surrounded by the vast majority of empty beds. The occasional man would wobble in with a minor injury, desperately clinging onto their friend's arm. Apparently, twisted ankles weren't very uncommon anymore, thanks to the big bad mountain looming over the training grounds. The same thing could be said for the obstacle courses; thinking of what was lying ahead in terms of training already left me out of breath. I was looking forward to that.

Note the subtle sarcasm there.

"Remember me, Jonathan?"

I didn't know how to answer that quietly posed question, so I decided to take a wild guess. "…Uh, Doc, right?"

Cue the painful silence.

"So, what's it going to be?" Skinny asked, now standing at my side with his arms crossed, a twinkle I had not yet seen before briefly making an appearance in his eyes.

Running a hand through his black and now slightly disheveled hair, the medic didn't reply straight away. He merely looked at both Skinny and I with a pensive gaze before grabbing a clipboard. Flipping through the pages of it, the sheets of paper were subject to the fast-paced scribbling of his pen. His rather calm appearance still had not betrayed anything; the silence however, as I mentally had noted, did.

Then the guy's name seemed all too clear now. "Hey, Eugene?"

Eugene Roe's gaze flickered to mine before settling again on his clipboard. He nodded, and I barely managed to catch the small upward tug of his mouth.

"It's a concussion, right?" I continued, jaw set as I voiced my thoughts out loud.

"A minor concussion," Roe confirmed without hesitation, eyes focused on the clipboard still in his hands. "According to Sisk here, you were showing definite signs of a concussion ever since you woke up. Memory loss is just one of 'em. You took a nasty fall down Currahee, so you're gonna have to take it easy. Winters sent me to check up on you yesterday, and when I got to your bunk you were looking beat up. Now, your head can't take on anything that's remotely exhausting. Like excessive running."

I nodded in defeat, the realization dawning on me. But I didn't say anything after his explanation, getting off the bed to then simply lean against it, opting to just stay quiet for the moment. I mulled over Roe's words, rubbing the back of my neck. I wasn't able to recall yesterday's events, but I was more than willing to believe that it wasn't just a fall.

Roe's sigh interrupted my pensive thinking. However, he continuing eyeing me with a hard stare, letting me know that I couldn't shoot the shit when this all was over. "Collins, you'll be fine. All you gotta do is take it easy for at least a day or two. Think you can do that?"

"Not with Sobel he will," Skinny snorted in reply to Roe's comment. "I mean, come on. The man's not going to let him off easy. We run Currahee three to four times a week, remember Doc? He's _that_ type of fanatical."

My lips made to curl into a subtle smirk, amusement lacing my words. "Wouldn't want him to either. But sure thing, Eugene. I'll try."

I could feel Roe's heavy stare on me as I used his first name. Maybe he didn't like it, who knows. Most likely not.

Diverting my gaze from Skinny's annoyed expression, Roe handed me the slip of paper he previously held in his hands, signing that I should read it through. Neatly typed, it stated that the soldier in question — in this case, him being _Private Collins, Jonathan A._ — was granted a _so-called leave from training for a total duration of 72 hours_. The form then went on with the exact medical reason as to why I couldn't attend training for three days, followed up by Roe's signature and a stamp of, probably, a doctor here at the base hospital. There were also a bunch of other terms I didn't get.

"Be sure to show this to Sobel," Roe went on.

A question formed itself in my mind, my eyes not yet the size of saucers. Figuratively speaking, of course.

"Shit, Roe," I wheezed out, switching my gaze from the piece of paper back to the dark-haired man and yet again back to the paper. "How did you manage doing this?"

"You mean filling in the medical paperwork?" Roe frowned his eyebrows, but a modest smile was playing on his lips. "I'm doing my job. Now — lemme take care of those grazes first before you go."

Right. Kinda forgot about those.

"How bad does it look?" I went on, my voice slightly gruff. I turned to study my hands, the sight greeting me unpleasant. The grazes on my hands had left a painfully annoying trail, the need to scratch the itching away becoming greater with each passing second. I could swear Roe's gaze was on me again as I touched a cut on the inside of my palm, breath hissing through my teeth.

With a bit of luck it wouldn't scar.

"Here you go, Doc."

At that, Skinny tossed a compact mirror to Eugene, whom in turn caught it and proceeded handing it over to me. Just like before, Eugene's face didn't betray anything, facial expressions smoothed out. "You can see for yourself," he simply countered.

Black, blue, and red all over; a weary pair of dark eyes staring hauntingly back at me.

Those were the two things I first noticed, my hand experimentally prodding the rather sore-looking bruises. They marred my right cheekbone, the dark color now visible in the broad daylight. Along with a slightly split lip that was in the process of healing, I wasn't a nice sight to look at. Instead, it was as if someone had beaten my ass in a school fight. For some reason that thought was amusing to me, and I knew I would have smirked if it weren't for one thing.

Eyes travelling over the reflection in the small mirror, I let out a soft grunt.

"You okay, Jay?"

That question had been uttered earlier in the mess hall, the exact same worry portrayed in the asker's voice evident this time. The sole difference between the two was that this one got me stumped. Just for a second, but that proved to be enough.

I cleared my throat, heart rate speeding up, hands flexing not soon after. Hesitation betrayed me. Begrudgingly, I ended up answering Skinny, the smile I gave him hopefully convincing enough to throw him off. As I curled my mouth, a sharp sting followed. I licked the sweet yet dull metallic taste of blood away with my tongue.

I once more gave Skinny that killer smile. "I'm fine."

"I'll get you some bandages for your hands," Roe began, interrupting my little staring contest with Skinny as he unwrapped a package of them. "You're lucky the cuts aren't deep; it could have been worse. For now, all they need is some daily cleaning up. Come back tomorrow, and I'll refresh the bandages. Healing shouldn't take more than a few days. With me so far?"

I nodded as I watched Roe's mouth move. To him it must have meant something along the lines of understanding. Instead, my brain was elsewhere, thinking over a certain memory. His words weren't even heard on my part.

_No wonder she always said I looked like him._

* * *

Standing still in front of the pristine hospital, I grabbed a pack of Lucky Strikes out of my breast pocket; the lighter I directed to the cigarette that was now dangling in between my lips. Hearing the familiar 'click' of the lighter closing, I handed it back to Skinny with a nod of quiet appreciation.

Funny. I didn't smoke. But Jay apparently did.

"You know," I began, blowing the smoke out of my lungs, "you could have told me sooner that I looked like shit." Next to me I could hear Skinny huff out of protest. He made to throw a light punch, and I managed to avoid his fist just in time before it collided with the empty space where my shoulder once was.

"Missed," I quipped, my mouth threatening to curl into a smirk as the smoke vanished into the hot air. Breathing in the scent, it felt oddly familiar.

As for Skinny, he merely rolled his eyes at my remark, lighting up his own Lucky Strike. "I did tell you; maybe you weren't listening that well. That's what you get for tripping over your own feet, Jay. Shit."

I retorted. "Sure, sure. Whatever you say."

It took me some willpower to refrain from really questioning that comment, so I let it slide. For now.

"So," Skinny continued, eyes following the smoke of my cigarette. "You're basically excused for 72 hours. No climbing Currahee, no training—nothing. You think Sobel's going to play nice, even with Doc's orders?"

I didn't say anything in return.

To be fair, that question had been burning on my tongue for the past couple of hours. I had not seen him yet, so I wasn't able to complain about what's-his-face just as much as the others. Still, I couldn't help the crease which appeared on Grandpa's forehead as Skinny's question left me pondering. Was he that bad? I possibly couldn't recall anything about Sobel that I may or may not have heard before this thing happened.

Sobel this, Sobel that.

I frowned. Maybe exactly that notion explained the general dislike; Gran never did say anything, and the letters she had of Grandpa didn't contain much about Sobel. But Jay did see him, and he even got chewed out for... simply tripping over his own feet. Frankly, I still didn't buy that story.

But then there was yours truly, strangely enough. Daniel Baines, a university kid left to fend for himself in the past with a war raging on. A war immortalized through photographs, film, stories, letters, and trinkets. Even close family.

So much for being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Glancing shortly at the cigarette held between my fingers, I decided to put it out, all appetite for it gone as quickly as it had come. Making the decision to head for the training grounds where the others would probably already be, I waved Skinny over to follow me. I just hadn't replied yet to his earlier question, one I had finished mulling over a few seconds ago.

"You tell me, Sisk," I shrugged, trying to make my way out of it with indifference. "I don't know. Is he that bad?"

I caught him forming a silent "oh" with his mouth at my reply as he fell in step, and I frowned at that. As if to prove his point even more, Skinny shook his head in disbelief. I barely managed to catch the dark look crossing on his face with my eyes. He wasn't happy.

"Geez, Jay. Weren't you there when Floyd told you what happened that day?" he stated, the tone of his voice on the fence of sneering. "Damn spaghetti."

_Huh._

"Spaghetti?"

He gave me a look. "Spaghetti doesn't go well with Currahee."

I shrugged, "Dude, calm down. I was just joking."

Shit. I chose the wrong words, retracing the sentence and breaking it apart in my head. I cringed for one tiny second, scanning Skinny's face for any irregularities. The raised eyebrows never showed, neither did the skeptical glances.

That small slip of modern lingo fell on deaf ears, luckily.

"…Yeah," Skinny continued, finally letting out a low chuckle after what seemed a long time. "We might or might not have started a pool. So quit scaring me, alright."

"Hey, hey—on what? Sobel kicking my ass or not?" A laugh escaped me, and I shook my head before the next question popped up in my mind. It was only a matter of seconds before my eyebrows transformed into yet another crease, mere curiosity taking over. "...Who's "we", though?"

"Yeah, you could say that. And, uh, it's currently just 1st platoon." Skinny muffled a snort. "But knowing George, it's only a matter of time before the whole company knows."

That last bit didn't really surprise me in the least. Skinny landed one arm around my shoulder; he must have seen it in my face.

"Tell you what... If I manage to win, I'll split my earnings with you, alright?" Skinny continued on, an expression of satisfaction washing over his face. "There ought to be a fair amount in the pool. By the end, I mean."

My head moved up and down out of own accord. "I'll hold you to that."

It was silent for a few seconds as we continued walking, apart from the gravel crunching under the weight of our boots. Speaking of those boots, they hurt. Seriously, how could Gramps — and now me — manage walking in these boots without uttering a single complaint?

If it would have been appropriate to just burn these suckers in this time, I sure would.

"Jay?"

"Yeah?" I sighed.

"You're kinda heading the wrong way."

I rolled my eyes in retaliation to his observation, muttering as I threw a look at him, "Sisk, you could have told me that—"

"—Private Collins and Private Sisk," a voice interrupted.

Switching my gaze from Skinny to the front, I squinted my eyes in an instant. I was glaring straight into the sun, its light blinding my sight without a single effort. The headache was threatening to pop back up, not offering my body any slack. Then I remembered the voice. I straightened my back, only now really hinting on that certain air of authority.

I couldn't help but think back to my glory days in high school. Yeah, _those_ years, where some kids keep insisting the gym teacher's a drill sergeant. But that was not material worth a comparison. This lanky fellow in front of me? He wore the uniform, had the two bars fastened onto his collars. He merely looked the part of the man in charge. And besides, his name tag spelled out the following letters.

...Well, shit. His sudden appearance and rigid posture was almost enough to hand me a whiplash.

In front of me stood _the_ Captain Sobel, and I whipped out a quick salute while Skinny did the same.

"Good morning, Captain Sobel," Skinny greeted with a stiff nod. But Sobel merely gave him a cold shoulder in return, and his eyes simply seemed to have been fixated on me from the start. But Sobel wasn't just giving me a once-over; he was assessing me, a feat that made me think back to Carter.

The old bastard.

From that point on, I started to understand the mutual dislike for Sobel among the men, a fact much more emphasized when he decided to open his mouth.

"Thanks to Doc's ever growing expertise, your weekend pass is revoked, Collins." He sounded, against all expectations, calm.

Whatever the hell that meant.

"Sir," I replied, not missing a single beat.

"I do not want to inflict any further harm on any of my men. I'm saving you the trouble of daily practice routines with Easy. However, it has come to my attention that we are running short of personnel at the mess hall," the dark-haired man drawled out.

I decided to bite the bullet. "Sir?"

"You will report to the mess officer this week at 0545, starting tomorrow," he followed, a commanding tone lacing his words. "Questions?"

Shaking my head, I replied, "No, sir."

Then all Sobel did for confirmation on his part was nod. "Carry on."

With raised eyebrows I watched the lanky captain turn on his heels, and walk away until he completely disappeared from my sight. The wooden barracks obstructed my view of him in its entirety, swallowing his figure whole. Like a metaphor, of course. Who would wish for that to happen?

Oh, right—_right_.

Thinking back, I had come to the conclusion earlier that Sobel was a jerk for a certain reason. Now I knew the reason just why, a scowl settling itself on my face out of own accord.

"...Looks like I won the pool," Skinny said, patting my back as a small smile crept up on his face. It was an unsuccessful attempt at trying to cheer me up, and he seemed to catch onto this. "At least you don't have latrine duty."

"Right." Another frown made its way. "Instead I get to make you this slop they call breakfast here," I snorted. "I'm looking forward to it."

"Yeah—"

"—If it ain't Jay and Skinny!" a voice bellowed in the far distance.

The sound of their boots simultaneously crushing the gravel came closer and closer, the figures of the advancing small group casting shadows on the sandy road. Here and there the men chattered, probably having some random small talk.

Squinting my eyes, I could just manage a few faces I had seen earlier at the mess hall. Still, some of the youthful grins weren't all familiar.

But that one mop of brown hair was now merely away at an arm's length. Instead of greeting Luz, I stared blankly ahead.

"So," George piped up, hitting my arm because of a certain lack of attention, "what did Sobel say?"

"Huh?"

George explained, "He just passed by us. You know, figured he saw you as well."

"First things first, Skinny got first dips in the pool, alright," I commented, a smirk gracing my face as George's own grin faltered. Served him right.

"...Shit."

"Yeah, shit happens. Anyway," I said, picking up where I left at George's question, drawling out my last word. "Sobel gave me mess duty. I get to scramble your eggs. For fun."

"And your pass?" a guy with flaming red hair asked, who came to stand still next to George.

"Uh, revoked."

"That's too bad." He made a face at my reply, shaking his head. "But, hey—nothing's more fun than staying at the base for a full weekend."

Another voice joined the conversation. "Come on, Malark. We gotta go, 'cause PT is so much fun!"

"Yeah, go tell that Lieutenant Nixon, Skip," 'Malark' retorted back, before once again focusing on me. His dark eyes somewhat looked on with pity. "Hey, see you around, Jay. Catch some shut-eye or something. You look like you need it."

"Sure... thing."

Sisk sent me an apologetic smile. "Later, Jay."

As I saw the men walking off to the bitter toil of the training grounds, the idea began to form itself in my head. If I was to be stuck here, I might as well learn to play Carter's fucked up game.

_Alright, Daniel._

_Whatever happens, make sure you don't end up dead._

* * *

**A/N:** First off, I apologize for the long time it took me to get this chapter out! I lost inspiration while in the midst of writing this one—it went everywhere and nowhere.

This chapter is a bit of a bummer, but there are parts in it that I like. Either way, keep an eye out for what may or may not have happened in this chapter. This story of mine works on a lot of principles, and I like to keep it an enigma on its own.

(Wow, that was cheesy).

Either way, if you are wondering, this story will contain _some_ romance, although I don't desire it to be a main focus point. But I can tell you that Daniel will meet someone who was a key figure in Jay's life. :)

Furthermore, I'd like to thank _cchickki_, _LiekePoynter_, _Livingtreetrunk_, and _TheFootballFreak_ for being so kind as to leave a review! It means a lot to me. :D

Until next time, and feel free to leave a review!


	4. Enigma

**CHAPTER III: ENIGMA**

Turning the handle of the door, the wooden barrack seemed to bend under the weight of creaking and screeching sounds. Placing both of my feet on the planking as I entered, the events of the day before seemed to hit home with an alarming ease. My grip on the handle tightened, knuckles whitening in agony. Every single bruise, cut, and aching bone in my body screamed at me for attention. White hot pain demanded its presence to be known. Yet; I merely stared at the lack of people in the barrack, my mind creating a world bordering on delusional images.

My forehead made to touch the door.

Reality did not make sense; not anymore. Heck. It had stopped the day that I got sent back into time, to a life that was not even my own. I was, simply put, an anomaly in Jay's body. A modern alien, maybe.

All this sci-fi stuff was seriously rushing to my head.

Steadily getting more nostalgic with the minute, I began to miss the rush of adrenaline I had when I was still known as Daniel. That kick of bursting energy was just one of many ways to soothe an individual. However unlikely, I wanted that feeling back—craved it like a little and bratty child who's hungry for a bar of chocolate. Anything to get rid of the pain, I'd take it.

As the heat continued to suffocate me in my clothes, so did the coating of sweat covering my brow. Dazed and confused I took another step — or two — further into the small, dark space.

I grinned the grin of a madman, living in the ecstasy of utter denial. The thought that I may have been too sentimental never graced my mind. Gotta love the joy of delirium, huh?

(Maybe I was coming down with a fever. Or, option two, I was going crazy).

The hardly apparent comfort of my — Jay's — bunk seemed like a good plan now. It looked the same exactly as the state I had left it in hours ago. It was unmade, messy. And it came with the knowing comfort of the hard material jabbing into my back with each twist and turn. But it still was an invitation, one I accepted as I blindly pulled the thin covers over me. My face was pressed into the pillow, nose nuzzling the white fabric. The crumpled sheets were a sigh of relief for my sore body, tired eyes closing without a single complaint.

The last rational thought that crossed my mind when I drifted away into sleep was how good Grandpa actually smelled.

Whoa.

I'm _so_ fucked.

* * *

_"I'm uploading the file now."_

_[...]_

_"We can't help him anymore, Dana."_

_[...]_

_"That's a lie and you damn well know it."_

* * *

SACRAMENTO, CALIFORNIA, 1942

"So, why do you like books again?"

"Why do you ask, Jonathan?" was her counter.

After I had asked her this question, Irene gave me a pointedly indignant stare behind the book she was flipping through. It was her look of sisterly judgement. The light brown curly locks that framed her face moved along as she shook her head, gaze back on the book. I merely shrugged in return, eyes directed at the young girl. Peeking at the cover page of the book she held in her hands, the title read 'Pride and Prejudice'. I continued to grin at her; she was even more a hopeless romantic than dear Rosaline.

And Rosaline was desperately romantic in her own way. Perhaps because she was the oldest of us three, and as such was expected to do certain things by our parents. Live up to expectations and all that. Maybe it was even more the case for her than I had been expected to from the start — I wasn't blind. Either way, I couldn't help but think that I wasn't entirely certain of that. Still, I was willing to bet my ass that her hopeless romantic tendencies had rubbed off on Irene in the most poignant way possible.

At least, that's how I saw it.

Speaking of Irene...

"Because, Jonathan," she started in a slow manner, hazel eyes not even sparing me a single glance, "books are actually very interesting to own. They are very much compelling to read unlike — naturally — those weird comics you insist on reading and devouring. It's just so boring and... tasteless." Her grip on the ladder tightened, and a short pause fell before she continued. "It's so bland for a pastime."

I looked up at her, the face I made in return probably not even seen by her, the novel in her hands clearly blocking the view of my annoyed expression.

"You know, Irene — you don't have to use those fancy words in front of me. Gee."

She didn't reply, amusement glinting in her eyes as she pursed her full lips, and I huffed at that.

"And what's your point? I mean, come on. It's one comic and I only read it when I have nothing else to do," I harsh whispered, defending myself. But seeing the slowly widening smile on her innocent face, I knew she had seen through my terrible excuse with ease. And that subtle glint in her eyes told me she had already won this argument.

I let out a sigh.

Great.

"_Fine_," I stated in defeat, my fingers pinching the bridge of my nose to numb the slight irritation. "If you want to know, the copies I have of _Captain America_ aren't my own, understood? I borrowed them."

Now, _that_ part was true. Except for, maybe, one small thing. The borrowing wasn't really... borrowing. You see, the family living across the street had a son, his name being Tommy. A nice kid for barely twelve years old, but too crafty for his own good. That trait was going to get him into trouble sooner or later. And how did I know? Because I used to be like that.

_Oh, well. A fair trade is a fair trade_, I thought at the time.

Or maybe it was Tommy who had said that. Yeah. Most likely _he_ did say that.

Irene made the trademark move of rolling her eyes, looking down at me from the ladder she stood upon before focusing on the pages again. She snorted, wrinkling her nose. "Of course you borrowed them. Like you always say." And then under her breath she muttered, "I can't believe you're my older brother."

"I can't believe you're my younger sister," I retorted, mimicking her voice just to spite her. If she thought I hadn't heard her, she was wrong.

She once more gave me that famous if-you-don't-quit-mimicking-me-something-will-happen expression of hers. It was a look she shot me almost on a daily basis, in the living room, across the kitchen table — it didn't matter where. But she never did it without a verbal insult to boot, thinking it would hurt my pride, having me run with my tail between my legs. Instead I always opted to mock her with a lazy grin.

Those comments hadn't successfully worked on me just yet, however.

"If you don't stop that, I'll tell Mother."

How naive.

I let out a low chuckle, "Please, Irene. Grow up. As if telling Mother helps in your favor. Besides..." I paused for a bit, looking around in the public facility before continuing in a hushed tone. A serious expression began to show on my face. "We're in a library. There are people here who appreciate reading their books in peace and quiet."

The stands that were housing numerous books didn't help to mute the conversation between me and Irene to an extent. With the silence around us, I became painfully aware of that fact.

Scanning our surroundings, the elder men and women were watching the both of us with gazes that held barely hidden contempt. Glares were sent our way through the opening at the beginning of the long row. Here and there they shook their heads in disagreement. At seeing this, the earlier grin that graced my face was now replaced for a more reserved look, and I kept my mouth closed in a thin line.

"Youngsters," I overheard one man complain.

The funniest thing was that my remark was meant to be a joke, but here the meaning of it took a 360 degree turn.

Irene probably noticed my uncomfortable silence after this man's comment was made, a sigh escaping her lips.

"...You're right."

I merely hummed in response, sparing a swift glance at my watch, just to see how fast the seconds ticked by. Only one hour until we had to go home.

But I had already made my resolve — there was plenty of time left.

Rubbing the back of my neck, I looked up at Irene who was still on the ladder. "Now, will you please get down?" I asked, leaning against the bookcase. "Mother is expecting us back in an hour, and I have to help Father with carrying boxes as soon as we're home. You know, the annual winter cleanup."

"Alright. Because you asked so nicely," Irene replied, a smile playing around her lips. "So, mind catching this?" With that comment, she let the book drop unceremoniously towards the floor and out of her hands. Before landing on the wooden floor, it hit my arm.

I grimaced in pain, muttering a low 'ouch'. "That's going to be a bruise," I said, picking up the old and tattered copy of Jane Austen's novel. "Nice aim you got, by the way."

"Yeah? Well, you deserved it." Another triumphant smile appeared, and she let out a soft giggle. "You're two years older than me, so perhaps you're the one who should grow up." But then her expression changed, one I had seen numerous of times before since I was young. A small frown marred her face not soon afterwards, replacing her curled lips. Hesitation was evident in her voice, her tone faltering. "Could you... maybe hold the ladder, just to be certain?"

I nodded, "Sure thing."

All jokes aside, I wasn't about to use her fright for heights against her, a fear that came about when she was still little. An unfortunate turn of events. Crossing that bridge to get past that was going to be hard for her, and young me was still adamant on holding her hand. Helping her along the way counted, I guess.

"Thanks, Jay," she resumed, once standing on the library's secure floors.

This time a genuine smile played around my lips. "Anytime."

The frayed and tattered book back in her firm grasp, I put my hands in the pockets of my slacks as she walked away with a light skip. I blindly stared into the direction Irene had gone, my legs unwilling to move just yet, rooted to the floor. It was all because of a single thought gnawing at the back of my mind; I almost felt guilty for not telling her in person. Or Rosaline.

To hell with that. I was the guilty one here.

It was all because of a bargain I had made with my parents. _Otherwise it would have been too hard to say goodbye_, Dad had said. Mom had just stood there, convincing me with her own words that it was _necessary_.

I swallowed the lump in my throat with difficulty.

_If only they knew what I was about to do._

* * *

I cracked an eye open, blinking a couple of times as darkness greeted me. I decided to direct my blurry vision towards the clock hanging above the entry of the barrack.

23:25.

I blinked for good measure and looked again.

Still 23:25.

Damn. I couldn't help but keep feeling like crap; the beauty sleep hadn't done a thing.

I instantly groaned at the prospect of having slept so unnaturally long in one go, the pillow muffling my complaints. Time sure had gone by quickly since this morning. More groans with more complaining followed. Bored, bored, bored — I kept repeating the word in my mind. I managed to keep this up for a couple of minutes until I finally grew tired of it. Rather, my _head_ eventually grew tired of all the whining.

Lying on my back with nothing else to do, I stared at the ceiling. I actually enjoyed my current loner state. It gave me the time and space to think over certain things. Some were important, others not so. Things that could have been or simply not plagued my mind. I probably could have stared at the ceiling forever as a result.

I let out a sigh.

That dream had felt so _real_. On top of being in Grandpa's body, I also had to go through — what I assumed to be — some kind of… weird-ass memory. It was almost enough to deliver me a subtle headache. I mean, literally everything had felt genuine; the sounds in the library, the texture of the book in my — his — hands. Even Jay himself. It just seemed too good to be true.

On another note, Grandma looked beautiful as her eighteen-year-old self.

Holy shit. Grandma?

_Man. This really sucked._

Apart from the ticking noises the clock made and my slow breathing, it remained awfully quiet in the cabin. I knew I had just jinxed myself by thinking that.

The loud, approaching footsteps decided to disturb the peace and quiet. Quickly, I changed sleeping position once more, shutting out the light I knew would be turned on in a few.

Current occupation? Ex-loner.

The barrack creaked once again; the clock kept ticking on, chiming into a new hour. The wind sent in a soft breeze, along with hushed voices, muted footsteps and the chirping melody of the crickets outdoors. With my back facing the direction of the entry, I steadied my breathing, hopefully blinding the others that I was fast asleep. Ironically enough, I couldn't fall asleep.

Lying quietly under the blanket, everyone seemed to have made the collective decision to pass my cot swiftly and silently. No wonder, as it was located pretty close to the door. I blamed Gramps for this choice of his, but their small gesture almost made me smile. But so far, my little ploy seemed to work as they kept walking past, leaving me alone.

Then, without a warning, the short racket started.

"Fricking night marches."

"Oh, yeah, Hoobs? Tell that to Sobel."

"I'm sure he'd love hearing that from you, Perco."

I could barely make out the muffled thud followed by a breathy chuckle... and an equally annoyed voice reprimanding in return.

Tone low, someone uttered, "Take it easy, Perconte. Collins is asleep."

Another loud thud passed my bunk with an exasperating groan in retaliation.

"...Sorry, Sarge."

It was the same voice I had heard earlier today, when Skinny and I had been ambushed by George and the others. This voice belonged to a guy named Skip. Muck, apparently, was his surname. As for the 'Skip', my gut instinct was willing to bet that it was his first name. Or maybe it was Jay's gut instinct. If that was the case, I didn't want to be right.

No, wait. I called bullshit on that theory. Having Skip as a first name didn't seem like a... common 1920s standard. It was probably his nickname. Either way, I couldn't go wrong with calling him both names.

"Luz?"

"Yeah, Lip?" was the response.

"Take Collins' boots off," the man resumed. "And wake him up in a few hours—on Doc Roe's orders. His bandages need to be refreshed before mess duty."

"Where's Doc anyway?" someone piped up.

Apparently that question had fallen on deaf ears; no one answered.

As if on cue, I just managed to hear someone, probably either George or Muck, heave a sigh. "Is it bad, sir?"

The silence that came after that carefully posed question was heavy, at least until 'Lip' made to reply. And as was the case with somewhat everyone else in this place, 'Lip' didn't even remotely sound like a stranger.

Wait — Lipton? As in the iced tea thing?

I mentally kicked myself. Guessing names had never been my thing.

"...No," Lipton stated, calmly. "It isn't severe. Doc simply doesn't want to take any risks. Jay is going to be fine." He paused then, a moment which felt as if he was seeking affirmation from everyone. The floor merely creaked for the millionth time as he moved, further away from my bed. "Good night, boys. Lights out in 15 minutes."

A hushed chorus of "sir's" followed, and the door fell shut before them.

"Finally. Naptime, fellas."

"Goodnight to you too, Malark."

Hearing footsteps in the direction of my cot, a weight I didn't know I was carrying seemed to be eased off of my feet. The laces were being untied, my boots taken away. Someone then proceeded with patting my leg.

"...You're gonna be okay, buddy."

It didn't take me too long to fall asleep after that, zoning out the hushed whispers of lighthearted talk.

* * *

The early morning was still outside, but already several pots and pans were on the stove, cooking and simmering. It would be ready in less than an hour for a bunch of hungry men.

Before all this, though, stuff had happened. George had woken me up in an ungodly hour, which he was ordered to; Roe stood waiting at the far end of my cot for a short trip to the base hospital. I was still busy with rubbing the sleep out of my eyes when I got back to the barracks. The only changes made were the new bandages applied by the medic-in-training. What would follow was mess duty, and my grumpy attitude.

I really disliked Sobel for that nasty decision.

Now, tears ran down my face, and I quickly wiped them away with the back of my left hand. The knife I used was being held clumsily in my other hand. And as I did this, I could feel someone staring at my back, and what followed not soon after was a bark of a laugh.

I groaned at that.

"Are the onions making you emotional, Jonathan?"

"Gee, Joe, how many times haven't I told you — it's Jay; you can call me Jay," I replied heatedly, proceeding with cutting up the onions in bits and pieces for who knows what we would be eating. "And, yeah, I'm really sad about all this army chow I've got to eat."

If I didn't know any better, I'd dare say Joe Domingus looked offended when I mentioned that. I just continued to shrug.

"It's the general consensus," I offered, but not as a form of kind reassurance.

He gave me a deadpan expression then, the potato in his hands subject to the peeler. "It's nothing you won't eat, Jay."

Hearing and saying Gramps' name still felt unnatural.

I smirked, "Just doing you a favor."

* * *

_Click-clack_.

_Click-clack_.

The movement of her heels resounded in the blindingly white corridors of the enormous building. She walked past a countless amount of doors. People greeted her; she would greet back. Whenever she walked, her stride was always poised, never faltering. It screamed confidence.

Yet at seeing _him_, lying there in the most vulnerable state, she didn't know what or who to believe anymore. He made her question, even more than she had done on her own already.

But right now, she had to keep walking. And her uncertainty — or was it her recklessness? — had brought her straight to her boss.

"Ah, Ms. Carven," he boasted at the sight of her as she entered. "I'm glad you could join us."

"You called for me, Carter?"

The reply for her question was a mere nod, his green eyes piercing into her brown ones.

She parted her red lips, meeting his gaze evenly. "From experience alone, I can tell being called to your office is never a good sign. That's what I like to think."

"Then maybe I would like for you to challenge this bold statement."

* * *

**A/N:** Another new chapter! Only took me a month to get out, haha. I apologise for that — I'm a slow writer.

However, hopefully you all liked it! If you've got any suggestions, questions or comments, lemme know.

So, here follows my question to you all: is there a character in my story you would love to see? I'm still at that point in the story in which Daniel 'meets' the men of Easy, and there are a lot, frankly. I'm obviously trying to shed some light on the 'minor' characters, so, yeah. :)

Many thanks to _BobtheFrog_, _PerfectBliss_, _Luckynumber28_, _war sage_, and _arahadi_ for your reviews! You all give me the encouragement to keep writing this piece of fiction.

Until the next chapter, and feel free to leave a review!


	5. Wings

**CHAPTER IV: WINGS**

"And we meet again, Luz."

I stood leaning against the bar, while George handed me my second beer of the evening without a single word uttered — but with a knowing wink instead. I didn't know why he had given me that wink, but I knew that thought was a half-assed lie made up by me.

"Three miles up, three miles down," I mumbled under the loud sounds filling the bar, a modest grin adorning my face as I took the glass George had offered me.

"Feeling thirsty, are we?"

I gave a small shrug of my shoulders in response to George's question before starting with chugging down the contents of the glass, all the while not having uttered a single complaint. My eyes were trained on the content of the glass, but it didn't take me too long to make the assumption that George's expression was one of surprise. He sure wasn't the reserved type, and I raised my own eyebrows at his gawking, putting the almost empty glass down.

"What?"

"Whoa, whoa, Jay," George began, a slight hint of a pause apparent in his words while he said it, meaning what he was about to spit out would probably be another trademark joke of his — as always. "Gee, slow down. Ease up. You could give me a run for my money with that mouth of yours. Heck, probably even lieutenant Winters."

"I know, he doesn't drink." I snorted then, placing the urge to make a face at him on the backburner. "And who put your ugly mug in charge of the bar anyway, huh?"

"Ah, I see! You're a real smartass when trying to get drunk, Collins." George merely let out a hearty chuckle following his comment, and he shook his head.

"I'm not planning on getting drunk, Luz," I replied, giving a subtle shrug for the second time. "Just celebrating the fact that I got my wings."

"Yeah," he began, nodding in agreement with that famous grin on his face. "I mean, it took us countless days of folding these damn parachutes, I could almost dream setting up these things. But guess what? We're finally paratroopers, Jay! I'd be damned if we weren't the best company outta there, wherever we're going to jump. Later."

"Mhm." I merely gave a nod of my own, waiting for the stars behind my eyelids to blur the vision I had as I took another sip.

"You mean idiots who volunteered to jump out of a perfectly good airplane, George?" a voice stated behind my back with hidden enthusiasm, which by the sound of it had to belong to Muck. Yeah, it was him, alright.

"Ouch." George let out a sound of protest, putting his hand over his heart with a mocking groan. "You wound me with your words, Skip."

"Melodramatic my ass," Bill Guarnere's trademark Philly accent piped up, the attention of the men shifting to him with ease. "You got your wings, Muck, so stop whining and leave the kid alone."

I turned around to face the upcoming spectacle, beer glass left untouched in my grasp as I watched the expression on Skip's face change to that of fake horror. A variety of snickers and chortled laughter left the mouths of the other men sitting at Skip's and Bill's table.

"Yeah? Why don't you down that glass of beer then, huh?" Skip retorted, a mischievous grin now on his face and a twinkle in his eyes, blatantly and clearly challenging his fellow paratrooper. "Count 'em up, if you please. It was your turn anyway, Bill. And, oh, Sarge, I didn't know you could use such expensive vocabulary!"

"Quit stealing my lines, Skip," George grinned, while Skip simply waved his words away with a dismissive wink.

Bill merely laughed at Skip's challenge, saying, "Heh. Now that's an offer old Gonorrhea ain't gonna refuse."

A slow smile crept up on my face at Bill's exclamation. Without a single doubt, the guy then proceeded to eagerly put his lips against the glass in his hands, wings clamped between his teeth. Booming cheers erupted at the table, the faces of Skip, Christenson, Hoobler, and others completely red as they counted in unison.

"1000... 2000... 3000... 4000..."

Turning my eyes back from Bill's view to the weight of my hands, the yellow liquid in my own glass was still waiting to be downed and emptied. Feeling even more thirsty at the thought alone, I drank the remains, feeling it travel down my throat with the taste of recognition. It was lukewarm beer, only a tad too warm in my opinion, its taste sloppy as I licked my lips dry. My body was on fire, my head pounding, the sounds of Easy company ringing in my ears.

"5000... 6000... 7000... 8000..."

I had already accepted that this was probably the worst beer I had ever had the pleasure of drinking, be it in this life or —

Bill's cry of "Hi-ho, Silver!" was deafening.

_Well, fuck it._

_Maybe I did want to get drunk._

"Hey, George. Think you can get me a refill?"

The guy in question nodded. "There you go," he said, grinning again as he watched me take another gulp with a look of amusement. "One fair warning, Jay: I'm not going to haul your drunk ass back to base by myself."

_Gotta love the irony of his words._

I raised my eyebrows, shaking my head. "That's what we have Perco for."

George made to answer, but his answer fell on deaf ears to me when another paratrooper came to lean against the bar. It only took me a few seconds to recognize the dark-haired man's artistic take on Sobel's voice, another trademark of George.

"Corporal Toye. There will be _no_ leaning in my company. Are those dusty jump wings? How do you expect to slay the Huns with _dust_ on your _jump wings_!"

Turning my gaze towards Joe Toye, I let out a small snort. Playing along with George's gimmick, the man even bothered with getting rid of the dust on his jump wings carefully by caressing it in an almost lovingly manner.

But I didn't raise my eyebrows at that. Even in this semi-drunken haze of mine, I understood.

However, I had to throw this sentimental thought into the wind as Joe grabbed Luz and his uniform. The sound of his raspy voice registered even lower to my ears as Joe said, "Luz, just give me a drink."

George merely answered with a grin and a few words filled with agreement, relaying the words I had said earlier.

"Three miles up, three miles down."

"Ten-hut!"

Forgetting my beer on the wooden counter to stand at attention, the familiar sound of heavy boots approaching must have meant a big announcement. At the rough sound of Sink's voice and the strange familiarity of him calling us "paratroopers", he told us to stand at ease.

"Good evening, Easy Company!"

We all chorused back, "Evening, sir!"

"Now", he started, "Parachute Infantry is a brand new concept in American military history. But by God, the 506th is gonna forge that brand new concept into victory!"

"Yes, sir!"

"I want you to know that I'm damn proud of each and every one of you. Now, you deserve this party."

With that, Grant handed him a beer, and Sink continued, "So, I want you to have fun, and remember our motto: Currahee!"

"Currahee!"

* * *

A ten-day furlough.

That's what the brass and Colonel Sink had decided to grant us.

My mouth had lifted up into a smile at that piece of news. The prospect of not being confined to training for at least a week sounded more than good to me. I hadn't started to fully love the reprimands Sobel yelled at us, which made sure I wouldn't miss his training. I hadn't even bothered to begin missing the creaky bunks, neither the food they fed the hungry paratroopers-to-be, nor the sweat sticking to my forehead.

I'd like to think these were all good signs.

Oh. Lucky me.

And that was also the moment when the realization sunk in like a shit ton of bricks. While this bit of freedom Sink had handed us tasted sweet at first, it was now sharp and bitter in my own opinion. I felt stupid for not having thought about that earlier, stepping onto the bus without a single feeling of doubt weighing me down.

Gramps had a family, and a home.

It was just that one simple fact which had slipped my mind. With all the intense training, having to adjust to the change that I was somehow in a different body, and realizing that I was in the midst of a war? Those things had kept my mind occupied. Not to mention, it irked me that I didn't know how my own good ole body was doing.

Freaky scientists. Yikes.

I let out a sigh then, one that most likely had caught the attention of my fellow soldier.

"So, you off to Sacramento, huh?" Joe Liebgott had piped up earlier, hitting my arm while the expression on his face carried a grin. He was more than likely blind to my musings.

"Yeah," I replied, nodding, not having the heart to grin back at him. It probably would have turned out to be a painful expression, anyway. "...And you're going back to San Fran?"

Liebgott hummed in agreement, lighting a cigarette. "That's right."

"Figures," was all I said back, leaving him alone to smoke in silence while I had started to doze off to the rhythm of the moving bus.

_It was going to be a long ride._

* * *

Dear Mother and Father,

How are you both? How are Irene and Rosaline?

I didn't get to say goodbye when I left. Dad, I think that is the least you owe me — and I them — an explanation, an apology. Rosaline can handle herself; you both know that as well as I do. But Irene? She isn't like Rosaline. I know that she is more upset than her sister. You didn't state it outright in your last letter, Dad, but I can tell.

So, I would like to think it's a good thing then that the brass decided to give us a ten-day furlough; I get to polish my boots some more for you, Mom! It is only for a couple of days before we continue our training. I'll explain everything then that I couldn't convey here on paper, and I'll be away before you know it.

The weather in Georgia was nothing I am not yet used to, not counting the mosquitoes. Even while standing at attention in the heat the pesky things kept getting to us. I suppose there is some irony in that. But training in the warm summer of Toccoa is over, and we moved to Fort Benning. I don't know if I'm eager to find out where we will go next when we finally ship out. It keeps me awake at night. And it's only a matter of time before the boys start to bet, like they always do.

Hopefully this letter reaches you both before I do.

Love, Jonathan

P.S. Mother, Father; don't tell Irene and Rosaline I'm coming home. Please.

* * *

The bus ride had been uneventful. For the most part, anyway.

Occasionally Liebgott and I would shoot the shit with other paratroopers, play cards, and share a smoke — Lucky Strike cigarettes, bless Luz. Then I would simply doze off, resting my head against the uncomfortable bus window or bench, arms crossed to keep unwanted attention out. The rocky road woke me up more times than I could count, and that was more than I wished for. To make matters more fun, my neck more often than not hurt after waking up. It was a vicious circle that kept repeating itself, over and over again.

As for Liebgott, he would always give me that I-told-you-so look — probably because I was an ass for forgetting to place my jacket as a makeshift pillow under my head in the first place.

So, I both liked and dreaded the idea of finally arriving home. But Joe didn't know that, remaining blissfully unaware.

Ah, well. At least the ride was over for me.

"Hey, Jay."

A familiar hand nudged me in the ribs, and I got taken out of my drowsily state, groaning. Lazily cracking one eye open, Joe was looking at me with raised eyebrows. A simple "Huh?" was all that left my mouth.

"Come on," he started, taking out my duffle bag from the small storage place above our heads and kicking my feet, "Sacramento's waiting."

"Oh, yeah," I replied back in a soft voice, my words loaded with a tiredness I wasn't able to fathom completely. "Thanks."

"No problem," was all Joe said, handing me my duffle bag with a sudden grin.

As always, the grins that Joe gave more often than not meant something. I narrowed my eyes at him. "What does that smile mean?"

"Nothing. Now, get outta here," Joe retaliated, the smirk remaining on his face. "Don't be late, huh?"

"Wouldn't dream of it." With those words having been said, I stepped out of the bus with the duffle bag on my shoulder, feeling the stares of the people out of mine and Grandpa's hometown staring us down. I didn't pay attention to them, merely looking at Liebgott who was leaning outside of the bus window.

"And tell your sister I said hi!"

"Yeah, I don't think I will, Joe," I said, sending him a small wave as the engine of the bus sprung alive, ready to leave Sacramento. I couldn't hear Liebgott's reply above the revving of the engine, and I merely kept my hand up, waving until the bus left around the corner, out of my sight.

"Bastard," I muttered under my breath, a smile playing around my lips.

Boots polished and pants bloused, I was ready to go. I was on familiar grounds again. I recognized the roads, the streets, even some of the stores. I knew where I was, as I had walked those streets before — 70 years in the future, true, but that counted. From the city center it was only a twenty minutes walk to my Grandma's house.

I knew that was where Jay had lived, a long time ago. Grandma had never stated it out loud herself, but thanks to my parents I knew her house was her elderly home. Her words weren't needed; the photos she had placed on the wall were enough proof to the childhood days gone by.

I pitied her.

"Hey, sir!" a youthful voice piped up, making me stop in my steps.

"Need something?" I questioned, seeing three boys on their bikes, watching me, the curiosity clear in their eyes. The one who had just spoken must have been their self-proclaimed leader as he put out his own chest, a toothy grin showing on his face before parting his mouth.

"Are you going to fight the Germans, the Japs?"

_That was unexpected._

The question caught me off-guard, feeling my eyebrows raise almost automatically. I wanted to walk through, get them off my back, but that glint in their eyes? It was one of pure expectancy.

I couldn't let them down. So, I replied back, saying, "Yeah. I am."

"Cool!"

The enthusiasm dripped off the boy's words as he had spoken that one sentence. And with nothing else left to say or to do, the three kids left on their bikes, huge grins on their faces as they drove past me.

"He's going to be a hero, Ed!"

I turned around to look at them, the boys terrorizing the neighbourhood with their yelling as they disappeared into the next street, and I swear I could have heard one of them saying, "I wanna be him when I grow up!"

I could only shake my head at that, continuing my trek through the city's streets.

They had no idea what war did with people.

Fortunately enough, it didn't take me too long to find Grandma's house, the familiar sight greeting me. The home with its American flag proudly hanging in the wind along with the wooden porch, both stuck out like a sore thumb. The home hadn't changed in the slightest, a lick of fresh paint throughout the years excluded.

Walking towards the home I knew all too well from my childhood, the door opened swiftly, the motion in itself screaming a strange kind of urgency. But before I could even register what happened next, the wind got knocked out of me, my bag dropping to the ground as a result.

A small body clung onto me now, the brown hair on the young woman's head barely reaching my chin. I had to hold in a laugh; it tickled. But her warmth gradually enveloped me, and without questioning myself first properly I wrapped my arms around her body, carefully resting my chin on her head. A small smile graced my face, a sudden familiarity washing over me. I had smelled her scent before, I had seen those eyes. In another year, on another day, in different circumstances.

Yeah, it was her.

I knew who she was.

"Hey, Irene," I mumbled into her locks.

Irene's voice came out muffled, "You're a jerk for disappearing like you did, you know that? And just—how _dare_ you telling Mom and Dad I shouldn't know about you coming home!"

"...I know," I uttered, the answer falling so naturally on my tongue, my arms now loosened around her small frame. Locks framed her face, and tears were present, cheeks red.

_Grandma_.

I didn't have the luxury of having brothers and sisters. Instead, my parents graced me with the ultimate gift of being an only child. There was no one else to bother — just me, myself, and I. There was nothing I minded about the benefits of being an only child. The sole drawback was that I would never know how it felt to tease a little sister.

Until now.

Irene slowly let go of me. Still, she seemed reluctant to do so, hesitation showing. A soft smile adorned her face despite the situation, dainty fingers rubbing away the stray tears on her cheeks.

"So, uhm," I started, one hand rubbing the back of my neck while the other motioned for the door, "shall we go inside?"

"Yes." She nodded, putting a stray lock behind her ear. "Do you need help carrying that, by the way?"

"Huh?" Staring at her frame in confusion, her hands pointed at the duffle bag lying in the grass. I couldn't help my reaction, and snorted out loud at her suggestion. "...You're kidding me, right," I replied, ignoring the quizzical frown on her face which hid the slightest sign of mischief — but just barely. "No, I'll hold onto that bag."

Having picked up the bag with trained ease, I followed Irene inside, boots clicking onto the wooden floor.

Nostalgia seemed to take over almost immediately.

The walls were lined with light wallpaper, covered with a subtle motif of connecting roses, scattered all over the faded white background. The same chandelier hang in the hall, a centerpiece that belonged in the family. My great-grandparents had sworn to never sell it, not even if it could pay some debts. The floor was as creaking as it had ever been, dark and heavy in color. Coats on hangers were lining the wall, and the same door leading to the living room was still there.

I now knew why she hadn't changed throughout all those years. She had always described this house as something to be treasured.

It was as if time had never stopped.

Walking over to the table standing next to the staircase, my eyes fell on a particular photo. Reaching out, the frame felt heavy in my hand, the photograph not yet frayed. Black and white, it showed Jonathan, Rosaline, and Irene. A typical family portrait in the garden, all genuine smiles made by the three.

"Jay? Are you… alright?"

The grip on it was almost painful, and I looked over my shoulder to see Irene, a concerned look on her face. I nodded, slowly, my lips forming a small smile.

"Yeah, I'm fine."

"...Good," she answered, her eyes clearly telling otherwise before she disappeared into the kitchen. I could hear cupboards being opened, her footsteps resounding in the quiet house. "Want some coffee?"

My feet still lingered in the hall, my eyes still drawn to the photo. "Sure! Thanks."

_Summer, 1940. Jonathan, Rosaline, and Irene._

That was what the description had said in the family's photo album, an album my mother had often insisted on I should look through during family events. I had always found it… boring, the photos lacking all interest.

_Summer, 1940. Jonathan, Rosaline, and Irene._

But _this_ picture had never been there.

* * *

**A/N:** Long time no see! It's been months since I updated this story, and I apologize. But for whomever may have seen the note on my profile, I made the decision to update this story whenever I'm able to do so. As such, updates will be very sporadic, and I do not always have the inspiration.

However, I do want to see this story finished, one way or the other. So, I'll make it work, somehow.

Leave a review if you want, comment on it, give me some constructive criticism or not — it's all good. Until the next chapter! :')


	6. Here and Now

**CHAPTER V: HERE AND NOW**

"Where's Rosaline?" I asked, the fork in my hand absentmindedly pricking at the dish on my plate.

A sudden pain erupted at my shin, a burning feeling of pointy heels on vulnerable skin. I barely managed to hold in the painful grimace that was threatening to show up, a neutral expression covering it as I looked my great-grandmother in the eye for an answer. It was uncomfortable, a warning no doubt.

"I had thought she would be here."

But the older woman sat there straight-faced, clearly unimpressed as the face of her eldest child stared into hers. She seemed almost as dull as the mashed potatoes on all of our plates, the gravy unappealing. I had to keep my snickers unnoticed. Out of the corner of my eye, Irene sent me a meaningful glare, her pouty lips an indication that I had done something… wrong.

Another realization took over: I'd have to talk to Irene about her rogue foot later. For now, I merely acknowledged her kick with a deafening silence, the fork still poking at the mashed potatoes with complete disinterest. I think she got the message across, her shoe lightly tapping against mine.

Then, _pain_.

Sharp.

Stabbing.

Uncomfortable.

Something prodded at the back of my mind, insisting on a certain thing I should keep thinking of. It had started at the simple mentioning of Rosaline's name. The presence was not comfortable, in the least. Yet, it also wasn't foreign. Too familiar for comfort, but not wanted in the least.

It was aware of something I didn't know, my hand reaching for the back of my neck almost instinctively.

"Your sister is dining with her fiance," Edmund Collins answered in a resolute tone, the carrot dangling on the end of his fork. He clearly offered no other commentary, except for the sternness in his voice. "She will be here later, no doubt."

The prodding sensation in my head became more prominent. Putting the scepticism aside, for now, I nodded.

"That sounds like fun."

"...Jonathan," was the name uttered in exhaustion. Helen Collins seemed annoyed with her son, that guy being me. The tone of her voice betrayed that I had crossed an invisible line, as did the expression on her face. The eyebrows were raised, and red lips were pursed in discontent.

"What's wrong? I only said that it must have been fun for Rosaline."

Disapproval showed on their faces. I didn't need to turn my head to see the same expression on Irene's face, the hairs on the back of my neck doing the job.

I let out an aggravated sigh.

"...Sure thing," I mumbled.

In the midst of the blank space, I knew I had missed one detail, something Jay was aware of. Staring at my plate listlessly, all appetite had gone out of the window. The tension could have been cut with a knife, probably even a blunt one. Nothing else in the room resounded, except for the large clock in the corner.

_Tick-tock._

Tick-tock.

Jonathan's brief return to his elderly home was already going different — keeping my expectations low should have done the trick. For some reason, it left me aggravated. The headache didn't help either.

"Mom, do I have to help you with the dessert?"

"Yes, darling, if you will."

Chairs scraped on the dark carpet, two pairs of heels clicking away on the wooden floor. I didn't watch as Irene and Helen fled to the safety of the kitchen to check up on the cobbler, the potatoes still unappealing. The chair prodded into my back harshly, and a hazel pair of eyes found mine — stiffly. If anything, I knew they didn't want to see the clashing of gazes between me and Edmund.

Head to head; toe to toe.

As I made to open mouth, that one damn word still felt foreign enough to even _think_.

But he wouldn't let me speak them. The man beat me to it.

"Jonathan," he uttered, posture shifted towards mine in something that must have been a comforting gesture. His hands were folded across the table, face set into a solemn expression. The remorse was visible on his face, blatant for me to see. "Your mother and I would like to apologize."

And just then, I found myself wavering under the man's heavy gaze. Dark eyes, waiting for an answer I wasn't prepared to give yet. Swallowing the nervosity back down my throat, I remained put, the chair still uncomfortable against my spine. Irene always had said that her father had the gaze of a hawk. Finally realizing why, I understood.

My eyebrows rose. "Apologize? For what?"

"Jonathan, your mother and I… We have come to understand we never should have put you in this position. When we received your letter, we were concerned."

A slight pause on my part. Then, the utter confusion sunk in like a ton of bricks.

"Dad, I never..."

_I never wrote a letter._

Those were the words that I wanted to say, a simple sentence to deny anything I may have done — or not. One thing, however, kept me from doing just that. The words choked inside my throat. As if some freaky presence decided to hold me back.

_But, of course._

Jay's memories were… fucked up. Like loose puzzle pieces did they float in my head, with nothing substantial to tie them together. But even then, the pieces I managed to place together, how vaguely it could be, were helpful. They made sense. They didn't sound absolutely impossible.

And just like that, I could recall the words Jay had once scratched with a pencil. A happy tone did the letter have.

Except for the ending, letters that told nothing good.

_Don't tell Rosaline and Irene I'm coming home. Please._

Well, shit.

"Pardon me, son?"

_Oh_. I didn't know I had uttered that out loud, and I covered it up with an aggravated sigh. "Nothing, Dad," was the response, and one quick glance at his face betrayed that Edmund bought it. "I wanted to tell them both."

"We know you are upset. You must understand, however, that this was not your mother's choice," he continued, his hazel eyes still pierced into mine. "As the head of this family, it was my doing and my decision."

"Yeah, your decision. You didn't exactly give me a choice, remember?"

His voice took on a warning tone. "...Jonathan."

"It's _fine_, Dad," was the retort. "It happened and it's in the past now."

My jaw was hardened, set stiffly as a result of Edmund's apology. Whatever mood I had before this conversation was now shattered. The tension hung thickly in the air. And at the clicking of heels on wood, I repressed the urge to roll my eyes.

But just barely. For some reason, the man made me think of Carter. The old man who had clear, green eyes, and with evil written plainly on his wrinkled face. I remember how he had looked at me with that same gaze, although it was colder, and a hell of a lot less nicer than Edmund's.

That time seemed so long ago. And it was — months had gone by since I had arrived here, in the good ole days. Well, good; what even was good about it? By simply tracing my steps back, I had figured out that I had landed in Grandpa's body. Secondly, the damn cherry on top of the pie — or however the saying went — was that he lived in the middle of a war.

That still didn't sit well with me.

"So, the cobbler's ready!" exclaimed Irene, her voice pitched high, enthusiasm showing in her pearly white smile. "Would you like some, Jay?"

I briefly met her gaze, shaking my head.

"Maybe later," was the response, chair scraping on the floor as I left the dining table without a further word. "I'm not hungry."

It must have come as an expected surprise — no one bothered to call me out. Edmund stayed seated with an unreadable expression; Helen was probably still in the kitchen, and Irene merely watched me go in silence as I walked out the dining room.

And somehow, I didn't really mind that.

Pretending was suffocating enough.

* * *

"It's pretty cold, don't you think?"

Looking back, I saw Irene standing on the front porch with bare feet, a heavy woolen blanket lying on her shoulders. Another pair rested in her arms, her lips pulled up in that infamous pout of hers. She watched me, calmly, clearly awaiting a response. Grandma had always been patient like that.

But unlike the crickets singing in the background, little creatures that weren't even willing to shut up for a second, I remained quiet. I wasn't in the mood to talk or to see other people. It didn't matter that dinner had already passed for a few hours. I was exactly where I wanted to be: alone.

Man, the irony.

"...I'd like to think that sitting all by yourself gets quite lonely after a while, Jay."

A snort threatened to leave me at that.

Having decided that I couldn't keep her waiting any longer, I opened my mouth to reply. "Since when did you stop beating around the bush? It doesn't suit you."

She chuckled at my words, her eyebrows raised in a playful manner as she looked pointedly at me, head tilted slightly to the side.

"Well, I learned from the very best. Does that sound familiar to you?"

I nodded, a grin automatically having formed on my features. "Of course you did. You flatter me, honestly."

Before I fully registered it, a heap of a grey blanket landed squarely in my face. Perhaps she didn't like that reply, her sarcastic words ringing into my ears as I ate the wool she gracefully gave me. My fingers grabbed at it, removing the fabric from my face. Grandpa's dark locks were now tousled because of it.

"Don't catch a cold," was her simple response, arms securely wrapped around her lithe body. "Your ego is inflated, _brother_. No leftover cobbler for you."

"Right." I folded the blanket out, placing it to cover me as I leaned back in the chair. Sighing, I beckoned Irene over to sit next to me. "Take a seat, miss."

She took the invitation and took place, her head tucked right under my chin as she rested her weight fully against my side. Looking at her, the calm breeze made her curls move. And as she sat there, she remained quiet. The look on her face was almost thoughtful — without worry. If only I could share that same… sentiment.

Yuck.

I now figured that Grandpa was a good brother, the kind any younger sister would have killed for. Then again, he was a bit too sensitive for my taste. Not necessarily in a weak manner. I just didn't like it.

But I let the cheesiness unfold anyway.

"...Listen, I'm not angry at you or Rosaline. Don't get me wrong," I started, gaze fixated on the dark sky. "It's just… Hurting you wasn't something I wanted. I pushed myself to tell you, you know. But in the end I didn't."

"Jay, you don't have to say sorry. If anything, it's getting a bit repetitive."

Even as she had said that, I didn't give her the chance to say anything more.

"Remember that day in the library? When I said Dad needed me?"

I could feel her nod, body weight shifting to rest more on mine.

"Look, I lied, alright? I walked you home, helped Dad, and then went back. I don't know why — I had to."

I remained quiet at that, face not daring to meet hers. Even when technically I hadn't lied to her, Jay had. I figured he had his reasons to do so. With that thought burning in the back of my mind, I swallowed down the uncertainty. A nervous chuckle left my mouth.

But deep down, it was scary how I managed to piece this all together into one coherent story. I wasn't sure if this was how it exactly went, if this was how Jay did it, all those many years ago. Still, no alarm bells were ringing. Grandma wasn't complaining, and it all seemed to make… _sense_. That was all the comfort I had, the only damn thing I could blindly count on.

Yet the guilt ate away at me, and I hated Jonathan's decision to lie. He started to rub off on me in that way.

"Back for what?" was Irene's quiet voice.

I swallowed, the words on my tongue.

"To volunteer."

"...They knew."

The words had left under her breath, the lightness in her voice now crestfallen.

It was a simple conclusion, something I had prepared myself for. But to hear Grandma say this, it hurt like hell. The pain was evident in her voice, tone lower than normal, the sentence consisting of shorter words. She had sounded definite in a certain way, as if her assumption — scarily on point even — was final.

Not that she griped often. Knowing her as the kind granny had its positives, I simply guessed. While complaining was something she often did, Irene never held grudges for long. However, as I looked her over, I was busy staring at a young woman, a girl whose youth got turned upside down. That was when I noticed it: there was a reason why she could be so mature at that age.

War did that to kids.

I let out a sigh. "I should have let you known. Lying to you and Rosaline… It just didn't sit well with me. Look, I'll—"

"_Jay_," was the name that parted her lips, voiced with a tone that screamed seriousness.

Just like that, I obeyed, completely silenced.

"Promise me one thing."

"Anything."

And as I said that, her curious eyes were trained on mine, the look of her face more disturbing than ever. I repressed the urge to gulp, recognizing that expression as something Grandma always carried when she was upset. She looked so young in that moment, so innocent. Scared.

But determined.

"Don't leave us alone, Jay."

Having pressed my lips on her dark curls, I knew that this would be difficult to accomplish. Irene's words had turned into a promise I had to keep. Yet, Jonathan's fate wasn't all that lucky.

I hadn't accepted that part yet.

* * *

Dear Irene,

The lights of New York are blinding. It's not California. Countless cars line the streets, and people seem almost unconcerned with what's going on right now. And as I see them walking outside, I'm reminded of something.

I miss you, little sister. I miss Rosaline — hell, even her boyfriend she insists on calling her fiancé. I miss Mom, and Dad. Home seems so far away, and as much as I want to for you all, I can't turn back now.

We're shipping out soon. The men keep guessing about where exactly; will it be the Pacific? Africa? Europe? No one knows, except for the brass who get to make the decisions. It doesn't matter to me as to where we go, although I wish it isn't Africa — removing the sand isn't the most fun thing to do.

Leaving the States will be a change. But that's what I signed up for.

Don't worry about me, Irene. I will be back.

Your brother,

Jonathan

* * *

"Who the hell thought this was a good idea?"

"If you ask me, I don't give a shit. We're leaving the States anyway."

An indignant snort.

"Ha, yeah, you say that now like it's nothing. But just wait until we get below deck."

"Hey, Andrew — shut your gob."

"I will if you quit that damn accent of yours."

Voices came from left and right, the scent of cigarettes being burned constantly a prominent presence in the air. Drops of sweat covered my forehead, the warmth having become impossible to ignore. The creaking of the large ship did not overpower the booming voices of countless men, and many didn't bother to stay quiet. A sea of soldiers had lined up at the Brooklyn docks, waiting to be finally shipped out.

Manhattan, Brooklyn — those places were as I remembered. But everything was more simple and less complicated. Cars lined the streets. People roamed in the shopping districts, careful smiles on their faces. The sight of seeing soldiers was now uncommon; many men had signed up to do their part.

I had walked through the streets of Manhattan with no real destination in mind; it didn't matter. Exploring Manhattan was my source of entertainment, seeing the place as something I had come to know as my new home. It felt strangely comforting.

That was a clear sign that I wanted to forget. And while the furlough — or whatever they named it — had been a welcoming distraction, it wasn't enough to escape this hell on earth. Soon enough I had found my way to the Brooklyn docks, lined up for transportation.

The S.S. Samaria was the troopship that would carry us across the Atlantic towards England. It was packed and warm — the only way the brass had deemed possible. Unfortunately, the journey there wouldn't take just a few hours. Cramming men in one room? If only I had some popcorn to enjoy the fights. There was bound to be some sort of animosity along the way.

Knowing this, I had secured a place on deck for the start, standing there even when the ship had finally cast off. The docks were left behind and dusk seemed to settle, an orange glow covering the sky.

A nudge on my shoulder followed, the smell of a lit cigarette dominating my nose.

"Jay."

"Luz."

Without asking, George lit one up for me. "So," he started, face serious. "Cosy place, huh?"

"No shit," I grinned, the cigarette snug between my lips. Looking around, more familiar Easy faces joined the fray. I noticed Grant's dark cut, and Blithe's serious expression. "My last bit of fresh air. Might as well enjoy it before I go below deck and remove these patches."

"Yeah." George shrugged, the smoke of his cigarette disappearing into thin air. "Where do you think we're heading?"

"I don't know. Guess we'll have to wait."

"Europe? Africa? Pacific?"

"...It doesn't matter."

We both remained quiet at that, and the deck had fallen into a silence — one that I could understand. In all its grandness, the Statue of Liberty stood there looming over the water. There was something strange about seeing it, witnessing it as the ship passed by. I didn't bother to watch the faces of the other men; for many this would be their last time to see the shores of New York.

Hell, I didn't know what to think or say, gaze fixated into the distance. For now the silence was less than comfortable.

"I'll see you downstairs, George," was all I said, flicking the cigarette down into the dark water.

Ultimately, we had a price to pay in this war.

I just wasn't sure when Jonathan would pay his.

* * *

**A/N:** So, for those whom are still reading, have a cookie! I know I'm not the best at updating, and I'm sorry for that. I'm glad you still like this story. :)

Anyways, we're back in Sacramento for a bit, but that only concerns this chapter. As you just read, the famous boat scene is about to happen along with the trip to England. At this point, the story is going to be linear with the miniseries, so you should recognize some things! I promise nothing extremely different will happen.

When the next chapter will come out is dependent on my schedule. I'm just hoping that will be soon. Until next time, and feel free to comment in the reviews section!


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